Zach, Chapter 7 Captain Thomas Hunter stood rigid at the head of the briefing table, the very image of command, yet an undercurrent of fatigue pulled at the corners of his stance. His crew—an accidental assembly of unqualified evacuees—sat before him, their faces awash with anticipation and dread. Taking a measured breath, he began, the weight of each word pressing into the silence. “Our situation is critical," he stated flatly. "My son is barely clinging to life, we have two passengers with broken arms. The only blessing we have from the pirate ambush is that Seth wasn’t injured when the missile struck the Bridge shielding." His eyes swept the room, capturing the gaze of each makeshift crew member. "I’m a Salvage-Ship Captain, and while I am qualified as a reserve Captain on this ship, this vessel has no crew. This ship was pulled out of mothballs for the evacuation. None of you are qualified on this ship." A pause allowed the gravity of their plight to sink in, the hum of the crippled ship's systems a soft dirge in the background. "We have no engineer, no weapons officer, and no electrician. We’ve been flying on a hope and a prayer." His voice was steady, despite the turmoil surely raging within. "The ship is seriously damaged, and I’m uncertain if I can fix it." He gestured to the motley assortment of staff. "Our Senior Steward is the Physical Fitness Center’s attendant, our Chef is the boy that makes pizza at Dirks, our 2nd Steward is the Tram operator, and our 3rd Steward is a supply administrator." The admission hung heavy in the air. "So, I’ve made a decision. We are not launching back into space.” Murmurs rippled through the crew, uncertainty etching lines on young faces, worry deepening the creases of older ones. From their midst rose the 2nd Steward, his posture betraying none of the confidence his impromptu role demanded. "Sir," he said, voice tinged with unease, "the diagnostic panels on the airlocks are reading a 30% degradation in the seals from the toxic atmosphere." Hunter's gaze landed on the man, sharp and assessing. "The seals are fine," he assured, with more certainty than perhaps the diagnostics warranted. "I’m going to brief you now on where we are." A hint of something like wonder laced his words. "By dumb luck alone and absolutely no skill of mine, we have stumbled onto one of the Ceres Corporation’s hidden worlds. We’ve all heard the rumors about them." There was a beat of silence. "And it appears the rumors are true. This world has a pleasant atmosphere and is teeming with life." The revelation should have sparked joy or at least relief, but in the confines of the damaged ship, overshadowed by the perilous journey behind them, it settled like a puzzle—one more mystery in a universe that never ceased to confound. The 2nd Steward rose to his full height, the flicker of fluorescent lights reflecting off his anxious brow. "Sir," he spoke up once more, casting a dubious glance at the Captain. "How is that possible? I know how to read a sensor." Captain Thomas Hunter offered him a measured nod, the weight of command resting firmly on his shoulders. "Ceres Corporation owns the company that makes all the sensors for just about everything," he explained with a practiced calm that belied the gravity of their situation. "Anyone that comes near this planet will receive a fake warning that the planet is extremely dangerous and toxic." He paused, a shadow crossing his features as he recalled the sensation of his own spacesuit lying to him. "I went outside, and even my spacesuit was telling me the air was toxic, but it’s not." His words hung in the air, a lifeline amidst their collective uncertainty. "This could work to our advantage. The pirates will be receiving the same fake warnings and might decide landing is too risky. And, even if they stay in orbit for months, trying to find one ship on the ground would be nearly impossible. We’re going to stay here and hunt and fish for what we need." The 2nd Steward's eyes flitted to his comrades before returning to Hunter. "Sir, it was one thing to go on that assault mission into an unguarded cache, where it was unlikely I'd have to use my gun, but I have no experience hunting wildlife, and neither does anyone else." Hunter's expression tightened into a frown. With a heavy heart, he knew the time had come to divulge secrets kept under lock and key by the binding force of their Non-Disclosure Agreements. "We've had one more stroke of luck that will make this work." He turned to the broad-shouldered figure of the 1st Steward, who stood like a pillar among them. "I’m sorry, I’m tired of calling you Steward. What’s your real name?" A raised eyebrow betrayed the man's surprise, a breach of protocol not lightly undertaken. "My name is Eric," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Very well, Eric," Hunter continued, turning back to face the motley crew assembled before him. "From the size of Eric’s shoulders, it’s obvious he is into weight lifting, and so the Physical Fitness Center was an excellent cover for his real job." A murmur of disbelief rippled around the room as the pieces began to click into place. "Eric is on the secret Hunt Teams that go out and find all the fine delicacies we sell at our Resort’s Dining Establishments. Eric is a skilled hunter and fisherman, and has been hunting on this world since he was a boy." In the pregnant pause that followed, a new sense of purpose settled over the group. Here was a fragment of hope, a chance to survive against the odds. It didn't matter that they were unqualified, inexperienced – they had Eric, and with him, a lifeline extended through the wilderness of this hidden world. The silence in the briefing room hung heavy as the unspoken question loomed over the assembled crew. It was the 2nd Steward, the makeshift third-in-command, who broke it. “What’s the plan, Captain?” Captain Hunter's hand dropped to a hefty tome sitting on the metal table, its cover embossed with the words ‘Captain’s Eyes Only’. The weight of responsibility seemed to transfer with the book, from one set of hands to another. "First, what's your name?" he asked with an unexpected gentleness. "Kevin, Sir," came the hesitant reply, the man's discomfort as palpable as the dense air of the ship. "Very good, Kevin." Hunter's nod was firm, his gaze intense. "This is the book they gave me when I was given this ship. All the security codes are in here for the cargo bays, and other stuff I suppose. I only glanced at it." He opened the book with one hand, his eyes lingering on a particular section of the page. “There’s a cargo bay for Outdoor Recreation Equipment. Find the code to open it up and inventory what we have. Also, take a look in the other cargo bays and see if there’s anything useful.” The Captain’s trust was like a beacon, cutting through the fog of uncertainty. Hopes pinned on fishing poles and nets, on anything else that might prove useful. Hunter gave the book a shove across the table. "Kevin, I want you to take charge of sorting out what we have. Return the book to the Bridge when you're done." "Y-Yes, Sir." Kevin blinked, taken aback by the trust bestowed upon him. He wrapped his fingers around the book, holding it as if it were a lifeline. "When do we start?" "Tomorrow morning." The Captain’s voice was crisp, unwavering. "And every guest capable of holding a fishing pole is on fishing duty." As the Captain issued the final orders, a sense of urgency swept through the room. "Now, I’ll give you fifteen minutes to warn the guests. The pirates aren't in orbit yet, so it has to happen now." With a decisive tap on the table, he turned toward Eric. "Break out the hover sled, we still have daylight left, and I want to inspect the holes in the volcanic crust over the ocean. I’m going to launch six missiles." Eric’s nod was all business, his frame coiling with the readiness of a seasoned hunter. A new mission lay ahead, not one of luxury and leisure, but of survival. The clock was ticking now — fifteen minutes to rally the passengers, to spark the will to live within them. Fifteen minutes before the Zappers would tear into the planet’s crust, exposing the life-giving ocean beneath. Captain Hunter watched his crew disperse, each member suddenly, irrevocably vital to their collective fate. As they moved to carry out their tasks, there was no room for doubt, no time for fear. The future was uncertain, a tapestry of possibility and peril. Yet amid it all, one thing remained clear: they would fish or starve. The choice was stark, the task immense, but under the Captain's steadfast command, they would face it — together. The briefing room's last murmurs of calculated hope faded as Captain Thomas Hunter strode with purpose toward the ship's nerve center. The Bridge, bathed in low emergency lighting, seemed to pulse with an anxious life of its own. Hunter's gaze was ironclad, fixed on the weapons control panel that beckoned him with silent urgency. His fingers, steady despite the weight of command, danced over the console, inputting codes that only he knew by heart. He had memorized the Captain’s Book, every line a whisper in his memory, and security codes to critical systems changed by him. Trust in Kevin, his makeshift Second Steward, was measured — no secrets truly shared, just access to tools for survival. Confidence seeped into his keystrokes; the safety of his son, his passengers, all rested on these moments of solitude. Fifteen minutes ticked by, each second elongated by the gravity of their situation. Then, with practiced precision, he unleashed the six missiles. They surged from the launch tubes like metallic phantoms, chasing destiny through the void. The ship shuddered slightly, a tremor of release, as the weapons arced toward their targets. Minutes later, Hunter found himself perched on the hover sled alongside Eric, the world below them a vibrant canvas of life and untapped resources. The shoreline hole yawned wide, a testament to human ingenuity piercing nature’s veil. Hunter leaned out over the thin framed hover sled, eyes scanning the jagged edges where ocean met rock. "Big," he murmured, more to himself than to Eric. His mind raced with the logistics of feeding hundreds, of turning this hostile planet into a bastion of sustenance. "Let's check the other," he called out, voice firm against the wind. The sled veered, skimming over the hidden ocean’s tumultuous surface, until another gaping chasm unveiled itself. Eric, ever the skilled huntsman, assessed the opening with a critical eye. "Need it wider," he said, contemplation etching his brow. "Gotta make it count." Hunter nodded, lips pressed into a determined line. His attention snapped to a flickering shadow beneath the waves. "There,” he pointed sharply. "What is that?" Eric banked the hover sled, circling for a better view. Below, massive silhouettes glided with elegance, a shoal of alien giants that could feed them for weeks. "Earth-like Tuna, but bigger," Eric stated, admiration threading his tone. "Enough to fill two-hundred bellies?" Hunter asked, hope tingeing his voice. "Two-hundred, easy," Eric responded, calculating the yield. "But these Red-Fins are larger than other spots I’ve fished on this planet. We'll need the shuttle’s strength." A grin cracked Hunter’s usually stoic expression. Here, in the wild azure depths of an uncharted world, they had found a lifeline. Responsibility to his crew, loyalty to the corporation that had raised him — these were the currents that now drove him forward. "Then we break out the shuttle," Hunter decided, the path clear ahead. Captain Hunter's eyes remained locked on the gargantuan fish below, his mind churning through calculations as swiftly as a computer. "How many can you bring up a day?" he asked, voice steady despite the gravity of their predicament. Eric's silence lingered in the air before he responded with a confidence that betrayed his years of silent prowling through alien wildernesses. "Three a day, maybe four," he estimated. "But, if we take too many, it could exhaust the fishing in this spot for years to come." The Captain's nod was resolute, eyes not leaving the bounty of the sea. "That's not our concern now. What matters is survival today. Tomorrow is a luxury we can't afford." "Understood," Eric said, frowning slightly. "If we keep it to steak, we'll fall short. But if it's soup—" His gaze shifted back to the water. "One of these could stretch to a thousand bowls or more." "Then start planning for a feast of soup. Let’s set the goal for twenty of these beasts by the end of the week." Hunter's voice brooked no argument, his resolve as unyielding as the hull of the ship they'd entrusted their lives to. "Take us back. I have missiles to launch." Back at the airlock, the throng of passengers formed a maelstrom of fear and frustration. Hunter emerged to face them, his announcement cutting through the chaos like a laser through steel. "Fish or starve, that's your choice." He didn’t wait for the murmurs of discontent to turn into a storm of questions; his stride never faltered as he made his way to the Bridge. Once there, the Captain dispatched three more missiles into the ocean's depths, their trails vanishing into the twilight. Ignoring the crowd that had followed him like a shadow, he strode toward the Medical Bay, his heart heavy with the thought of Zach lying still and pale within. At the threshold, he paused, facing the gathered faces – each one a life he was duty-bound to safeguard. "Anyone who crosses this line," he declared, the threat in his tone colder than the void of space, "will find themselves without a ship to call home." The riotous energy dissipated, quelled by the unwavering command of a man willing to do whatever it took for his son. And with that, Captain Hunter stepped into the Medical Bay, the door sliding shut behind him, sealing away the desperate hope that flickered in his chest for Zachariah's recovery.